Who is it and why does he persiss in doing these things, if only for the pure pleasre of the colorific interactivity that arises when the emotive brushes swipe the gritty surface in deflection of their patterns that make the collage on the canvas dance like a crowd full of people who might likely arise if only I was able to be a good self-promoter.

And again we must ask why, why she did it, and why it makes me do this. Forever will be this question, as the colors collide and the paint intermingles, dancing around the color wheel, spinning like a hippy chick at a Dead show. Of course, the acid is now neutral and it wan't that strong to begin with, so the cerebral hydrochloric circumlocution that create the pigments of my vomit's perception, actually wind up on canvas and for that reason, it is called 'Art.'

Art is Life after all, and what more lifelike of a substance to make a first impression on society's gazing eyes wide shut on the half moon's starlight. Even if there's another big hoo-hah that night that everyone else is going to, the fact is you will be missing out on the the last great moments of the futures past.